Reckless

Hey, my names Hailey and i'm your typical messed up Canadian teenager. My heads a bit of a mess and I blog what expresses how I feel. If it wasn't for Dylan O'Brien or Felix Mallard, I don't know where i'd be. If you want to know anything just ask, I'm always here for anyone who needs me. Stay strong lovelies

[thisisthefirstthing]

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[starwarsgrl77]

A part of me is missing

[remanence-of-love]

[inked-with-feels]

The Moment Breaks Him | Stiles Stilinski

Stiles Stilinski x Reader | Void Angst | Hurt/Comfort | First Person

did this one for the pain. | request yours here ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Word Count: ~2.2k Summary: After everything, he still reaches for her like it’s second nature. But when she flinches, it breaks something in both of them.

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He’s standing in front of me, close but not touching, the air between us taut with something neither of us wants to name. His hoodie hangs loose off one shoulder, sleeves bunched at the elbows, and his hair is still damp, curling slightly where it hasn’t dried. His face is unreadable. I can feel the hesitation radiating off of him—like he’s calculating risk in every move, weighing whether or not he’s allowed to reach for something he used to hold without thinking. I sit on the edge of the bed with my hands clasped tight between my knees, the pressure biting into my knuckles, anchoring me while the air in the room feels like it’s closing in. The lamp behind him flickers, casting soft shadows that shift with every breath, and I can hear the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, the uneven tick of the heating vent, the silence of everything else.

When Stiles raises his hand, it’s slow. Measured. The motion is gentle, open-palmed, fingers slightly curled like he’s offering—not claiming—like he’s asking for permission without needing to speak it. His gaze doesn’t leave mine. He’s not reaching for my hands or my shoulders. He’s reaching for my face. The softest part. The place he used to touch when he wanted to make me laugh, or calm down, or just feel held. But this time, as his hand lifts and crosses that final inch of space between us, something inside me coils. My breath stalls. My throat closes. And before I even know it’s happening, my head jerks back.

The movement is small. Not violent. Not deliberate. But it’s enough.

His hand stops in mid-air, fingers barely an inch from my cheek, and the pause that follows is deafening. My heart drops into my stomach. I stay completely still on the bed, frozen in place as shame burns up the sides of my neck and behind my eyes. I feel it before I see it—the way his entire body stills. Then he lowers his hand slowly, carefully, like it’s suddenly too heavy to hold up. His eyes shift from mine and his shoulders sink as he takes a single step back, and I swear I can feel the cold rush into the space he leaves behind.

Stiles doesn’t speak as he turns from me. He just moves toward the chair in the corner of the room and sits down without ceremony, elbows braced on his knees, one hand scrubbing over his mouth. His shoulders stay hunched, his head bowed, and he doesn’t look at me. The way he settles into the chair—like he’s trying to make himself smaller—guts me. I stay seated on the bed, staring at him like maybe I can will this into a misunderstanding. My throat is thick. My legs won’t move. Every part of me is screaming to reach for him, to close the distance and make it better, but I’m stuck in the wreckage of my own reaction.

“It’s okay,” Stiles says quietly, his voice worn at the edges, almost too calm, and I hate how easily the lie comes out of him, like he’s trying to protect me from what I already know I did. I whisper, “I didn’t mean to do that,” and my voice cracks as it leaves my throat. “It just… happened.” He nods, barely, eyes locked on the floor like it might absorb some of the weight we’ve both been carrying, and I feel my chest tighten with something worse than guilt. “Stiles—” I try again, but he cuts in softly, not unkind, just tired. “It’s okay,” he says again, and this time it sounds thinner, stretched too far over something fragile. “Your body remembers. It’s not your fault.”

The softness in his voice doesn’t soothe me. It shatters me. Because it’s not forgiveness—it’s surrender. He’s letting me off the hook before I even ask, like he’s already decided he deserves this. Like he’s already decided I don’t trust him. I shake my head, fast, desperate, and I say, “I’m not scared of you.” The words land hard in the quiet, and for a second he doesn’t respond. But then he finally looks at me. When our eyes meet, the breath leaves my body. He doesn’t look angry or wounded or distant. He looks hollow. Like something inside him just folded in half.

“You pulled away,” he says, and he doesn’t say it like an accusation. He says it like a confirmation. A quiet acknowledgment that the thing he was terrified of happening just did. I nod, because I can’t lie to him. “Do you think I’d ever hurt you?” he asks, and I swear the question breaks me clean in two. “No,” I say immediately, because it’s true. “Never.” But then he says, “But your body does,” and the floor tilts under me. That’s what this is. That’s what he’s been afraid of. That some piece of me—some deep, buried part I can’t control—doesn’t see him when he gets too close. It sees what used to live in his place.

I force myself to stand. My limbs feel wrong, heavy and uncertain, like they don’t trust me to carry this. I walk toward him slowly, afraid that if I move too fast I’ll startle both of us back into silence. He watches me with tired eyes, the kind of look that says he’s bracing for whatever comes next, even if it’s goodbye. I stop at the edge of the chair and crouch down until I’m level with him. “I stayed,” I tell him. “When it was him. When you were gone. When I didn’t know if you’d ever come back—I stayed. Because I knew you were still in there. Because I never gave up on you.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He exhales, slow and shaky, his hands loosely clasped, his knuckles pale. I reach out and touch his knee, tentative, light, like I’m not sure if I’m still allowed. He doesn’t move. “I didn’t flinch because I’m scared of you,” I say. “I flinched because I forgot how to stop remembering.” His eyes meet mine, and I see it then—the pain, the grief, the exhaustion of trying to be someone I’m not afraid of. He blinks and says, “You don’t owe me comfort. Not after what I did. Not after what he did with my face.”

I shake my head and move closer. “But you’re not him,” I say, and I raise my hand slowly, praying my body doesn’t betray me again, and this time it doesn’t. I press my palm to his cheek, and he closes his eyes like it physically hurts to feel that much. He leans into my touch. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t breathe. Just stays there, like that moment is the only thing holding him together.

We don’t speak again. But the silence between us is different now. It’s not fixed. Not healed. Not gone. But it’s something we’re both still choosing to stay inside. And even though that flinch still lives in the air between us—between my skin and his memory—I know he’s still here.

And I’m not leaving.

[000l]

i texted him "have fun" he replied "no I can still text you and have fun" and that pretty much sums up the type of man that I want in my life.

[inked-with-feels]

Tell Me You're Still In There | Stiles Stilinski x Reader (Nogitsune Era)

Word Count: 3,118 Plot: He says he could kill you. You look into his eyes and tell him he won’t. Because even with your back against the lockers and his fingers on your jaw, you know Stiles is still inside there—somewhere. And you’re not leaving without him.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ The lights stutter overhead like they’re trying to warn you. That sharp, sick kind of flicker—the kind that always comes before the scream in a horror movie. Each buzz makes your skin crawl a little deeper. You hesitate just inside the threshold of the locker room, heart already trying to claw its way out of your chest. Everything smells like sweat and tile cleaner and something else—something burned beneath the surface. Wrong. Off. Like something in the room is rotting and you can’t see it yet.

You swallow against the weight pressing at your throat. The door closes behind you with a heavy hiss, sealing you in. It sounds like a trap resetting. You whisper his name. Just to see what echoes. Nothing does. Just the soft drip-drip of a pipe somewhere near the showers. Just the hum of the lights, too bright and too cold. Just the silence of a heartache that hasn’t happened yet but already knows how it ends.

You move further into the room, shoes echoing off tile, fingers trembling at your sides. Then—he’s there. Leaning against the far wall like he’s been waiting for you. His arms are relaxed, one hand in his hoodie pocket, his expression unreadable. The air shifts. He looks up slowly, and for one second your breath forgets how to move. But it’s not the look that breaks you. It’s the absence behind it. Empty. Detached. Not even cold—just vacant. Like he’s standing in a room where you’re the ghost.

“Stiles?” you ask, and your voice breaks the second time, but you don’t back down. His stance doesn’t shift. He just watches you like someone studying an animal too dumb to stop walking toward the snare. "You're late," Stiles says, voice low and lazy. “I thought you'd be faster. Love tends to make people impulsive.”

You want to run. Every part of your body screams it. But you take a step closer instead. Because he’s still yours, even if every instinct says he isn’t. “Stiles, I know you're in there,” you say, heart hammering. "You're not just gone. You're fighting. I know you are.” He tilts his head, amused. “You’re boring when you’re hopeful,” Stiles replies. “You used to be mine,” you whisper, voice raw. Almost too quiet to hear.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says. “He really did love you, didn’t he? So much noise in his head. Always about you. Every flicker of doubt. Every ache. Every time he imagined losing you.” He smiles, too wide. “All yours.” Your chest constricts. You press your nails into your palms. Don’t let him see you break. “You’re not him,” you say.

“Maybe not,” he shrugs. “But I remember what he felt. That little tug in his chest every time you looked at someone else. That thing he did where he traced your name in the margins of his notebook like some desperate sixteen-year-old.” He steps toward you. “That pathetic ache to protect you.”

He stops inches away. You can feel his breath on your lips. It’s not Stiles—it’s something colder, electric, like ozone before a storm. “But I’m not here to protect you,” he adds.

You clench your fists to keep them from shaking. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I know he loved me. I still know it. And if any piece of him is still inside you—I’m not leaving.” His gaze sharpens. You’ve hit a nerve. “I could kill you,” Stiles whispers. You nod once. “Yeah. But he wouldn’t.” You reply.

Silence. Then—he moves.

Your back hits the lockers with a slam that steals the air from your lungs. His hand grabs your jaw, fingers pressing tight but not enough to bruise. Just enough to make it clear you’re not in control. Your palms splay against his chest but you don’t push. Don’t show fear. Don’t look away. His face is too close. You can see the flecks in his eyes, the shadows twitching behind them. You can feel his thumb graze your cheek.

“Say it again,” Stiles murmurs. “Tell me he wouldn’t hurt you. That he’s your anchor.” Your voice shakes, but it doesn’t falter. “He is.” He studies you like he’s dissecting you. “And you love him?” he asks. “Even like this,” you answer.

His brow furrows. His eyes search yours. For what, you don’t know. But something shifts. His grip softens. Barely. You press your fingers to his chest—right over where his heart should be. “I see him,” you whisper. “He’s screaming to get out.” The muscle in his jaw tightens. He leans in like he’s going to kiss you—but his lips hover just shy of yours, a breath apart.

“You should be afraid of me,” Stiles murmurs. “I am,” you admit. “But not of you. Of losing him.” There’s a fracture. You see it. A flicker in his eyes—not the monster. Not empty. Just haunted.

His hand slides away from your face like it’s burning him. He stumbles back a step, expression slipping. His eyes squeeze shut, jaw clenched so tight it must hurt.

“...Y/N,” he whispers. It’s him. Stiles.

You reach for him. “I’m here. I’ve got you.” But then his hand flies to his temple, and a low groan escapes his throat like something inside is trying to rip him in half. “No, no, no—” Stiles grits out. “Stiles—!” you call out.

He shoves you back, breath ragged, backing away like you’ve just stabbed him. “I said stop!” His voice warps mid-word, distorted, laced with something inhuman. You stand there, frozen, tears rising like fire. “I don’t want to win,” you say. “I just want you.”

He flinches. One hand hits the locker beside him. The metal caves beneath his palm. He curls the other around his ribs like he’s trying to hold his body together. “I’m not—I can’t—” he gasps. “You’re still in there,” you whisper. “You’re still mine.” He looks up, and this time, it’s all him. His eyes, his voice, his grief.

“I can’t hold him off much longer,” Stiles says. Your heart shatters. You step forward, slow, controlled. You press your forehead to his, breathing in the pieces. “Then don’t. Let me hold you,” you say.

He exhales shakily. His hands drift to your hips, barely resting there. Like if he touches you fully, something will break. You feel it too. “I’m not strong enough,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be. Not with me,” you reply.

He squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing his face into your neck. “You always loved me too much.” “And I always will.”

A beat. Then— “Run,” Stiles says. The word is barely sound. But your heart stops cold. You pull back. “What?” His voice is shaking now, deeper, more distorted. “Run. He’s—he’s coming back—” “Stiles—” you try. “RUN!” he screams, voice no longer his.

You don’t wait. You kiss his cheek—hard, fast, desperate—and bolt for the door. His knees hit the floor behind you with a choked groan, fingers clawing at his chest.

You don’t stop. But before the door slams shut behind you, before the world outside the locker room rushes back in—you hear it. One final breath. One broken word.

“Y/N.”

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End Note: this one clawed its way out of my chest. scream in my inbox if you’re wrecked. 🖤 requests are open - request here!

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From February 16 to 17, 1913 Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka First published : 1973

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Best hug

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the only hug i need rn

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don’t ever leave, she said to me

beside you - 5 seconds of summer

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I hope we all make it

[xveyra]

I don't belong anywhere.

Not even in me.